Me as an Animal (Based on Animal Farm by George Orwell)

June 23, 2008

By Hallie B., Twin Falls, ID

I am a silent cynic when it comes to the revolution. If dogs or pigs could read minds, I’d be dead by now. When Old Major spoke of revolution, it sounded like a beautiful dream. The pigs turned it into an ugly nightmare. Napoleon, Napoleon, Napoleon; no matter how many times I say it, it still leaves a bad taste in my mouth. This was blasphemous; Napoleon was only looking out for our well-being, at least, that was what he wanted us to think. Sometimes, I wonder why I choose to stay here.

I remember that day—it seems like it was ages ago—when Old Major stood before us and first talked about the revolution. The way he spoke, it sounded like true happiness was inches away, and we could grasp it if we just tried. Thanks to Napoleon—with the help of the other pigs, it’s miles away, and they keep pushing it farther and farther. If only Old Major hadn’t died, or if Snowball had taken complete control, perhaps this wouldn’t have happened.

At first, we seemed like a force to be reckoned with. We were better off without Jones. Everything was downhill from there. The pigs ate all of our hard-earned milk and apples. The pigs exiled Snowball. They sold Boxer to the glue factory to feed their newfound whiskey addiction, right under the other animals’ noses. Somewhere in there, I saw the most horrifying thing that I could see in my lifetime.

There was blood, corpses, gore everywhere. Lives ripped from innocent comrades for so-called “crimes.” Some of them seemed unforgivable, if there was any truth to them. Most of them were completely ridiculous—hens were slaughtered for a dream they had! As the dogs killed them, hope died with them. Truly, we were no longer free. We were truly slaves of the pigs.

My nightmare had started. It still continues. It will always continue. This farm is the only home I know. I won’t be forgotten, not by the animals that are truly my friends. As the pigs walk on two legs, I’ll fight the urge to shove them over. No matter if it’s Manor Farm, run by the neglectful Mr. Jones, Animal Farm, a utopia run by all animals, or Manor Farm, a dystopia in disguise, ruled by the pigs with an iron hoof, it will always be home to me.

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